Asleep, he dreamed
by Felix-Felicitas
Summary: After Harry is gravely injured, his mind is left vulnerable.
1. Chapter 1

SUMMARY: After he is gravely injured, Harry's mind is left vulnerable to Voldemort.

TITLE: Asleep, he dreamed.

AUTHOR: Felix-Felicitas

RATING: T

DISCLAIMER: We're borrowing them. We'll put them back on the shelf when we're done.

"Asleep, he dreamed."

Their hero had fallen out of the sky.

If there had been someone attacking Harry Potter during that cloudy, foggy afternoon, none of the Quidditch spectators saw it. One moment, the seeker was bearing down on the golden orb fluttering toward the heavens, and the next he was falling. Falling so fast that no one had even had time to utter a single word of protection or reach for a single wand.

From the stands, Hermione had watched helplessly as Harry had plummeted, then slammed into the ground, his head bouncing once, twice against the grass before he had lay perfectly still, his broom still under his twisted body.

Later, she would remember screaming his name.

Hagrid had reached Harry first, and before Dumbledore or Snape or anyone else could even set foot on the field, Hagrid had swept the young man into his arms and was running, top speed, toward the castle.

The students had rushed the field as if to follow, but the professors formed a barrier, their arms spread, holding them back. In the same moments, Professor McGonagall had grabbed both Hermione and Ron by the forearms, muttering "Come with me."

They thought perhaps she would take them to the hospital wing to be with Harry. He'd probably broken an arm again. Maybe a concussion this time. The scene was familiar to them: waiting in the hospital wing at Harry's bedside, waiting for Harry to be patched up.

They were surprised, then, when Professor McGonagall took them to her office, a dusty affair with bookshelves that traveled from floor to the high ceiling.

"No doubt they've Apparated him to St. Mungo's," she said firmly. "We'll wait here for news." She tilted her chin toward the armchairs that faced the blazing fire in her fireplace. "Sit down, children. I'll make tea."

She puttered around the cramped quarters, making tea without using magic, keeping her hands busy. Hermione noticed that their teacher's hand tremored as she reached for the teakettle.

The realization struck Hermione suddenly:

Harry is dead.

Ron glanced at Hermione and was grateful she was already seated, as her face was horribly white pinched and she looked as if she was going to faint.

"Hey." He grabbed her shoulder, shook it slightly when she did not respond. "He'll be all right."

Hermione shook her head, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. "Did you see him, Ron?" she whispered. "When he struck the ground? It was as if… his life was knocked out of him."

He had seen Harry hit the ground, had noticed how incredibly and suddenly still he'd become. But Ron refused to believe Harry had suffered any injury more serious than a few broken bones, and intended to tell Hermione this as he reached to take her hand.

She gazed at where their hands touched and began to cry quietly, her head bowed and her hair shielding her pale face.

Ron felt the first twinges of blood-chilling fear, the denial that had protected him melting into the realization that Harry might not open his eyes and ask what had happened.

The knock at the door startled them all, but Professor McGonagall recovered quickly and opened the door to allow Professor Snape's entrance.

"Alive," Snape said quietly by way of greeting. "His injuries are grave. He seems to be asleep… permanently."

A choking sound escaped Hermione. Professor McGonagall's hand fluttered to her heart. "Dear boy," she whispered.

"What does that mean?" Ron asked, his voice quivering for the first time. "Asleep permanently?"

Snape ignored him. "If you wish to visit Mr. Potter, now would be the appropriate time."

_Harry woke with a start, a sibilant echo still ringing in his ears. He sat up and fumbled for_ _his glasses, his hand shaking. The world came into focus, and he peered into the inky shadows in an effort to find the source of the hiss._

_He was in the hospital wing, in the bed he'd come to think of as his, the one right next to Madam Pomfrey's desk. The room was devoid of all light but that of the sickle moon, though the eerie blue glow it produced was enough for him to see that he had the wing to himself._

_Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Harry reached for his wand, a feeling of unease creeping over him. Something wasn't right. He had a sense of trepidation growing in him, a nervous roiling of his stomach._

"_Hello?" he called out, as he stood. He wobbled a little, suddenly dizzy, and took a few deep, even breaths until he stopped feeling like a Weeble. "Madam Pomfrey? Anyone?"_

_His calls went unanswered, so he pulled on the dressing gown that had been draped over the foot of his bed, lit his wand with a muttered 'Lumos', and walked unsteadily out of the hospital wing._

_The corridors of Hogwarts were as dark and deserted as the room he had just left. Four and a bit years of study in a school packed with hundreds of children had left him accustomed to a steady hum of background noise – laughing and screeching and crying, singing and chanting and shouting. Hogwarts' hallowed halls were always joyously riotous; never graveyard quiet. The grey stone walls were meant to contain and protect the energetic students; the castle was ill-suited to this odd stillness. Harry was acutely aware of the rasp of his breathing, the sound of his heart beat thudding in his ears, the soft pad of his slippered feet. Every sound he made seemed magnified tenfold, and he was jumpy._

_He instinctively sought out the Gryffindor common room, his safe haven, and he was startled to find the entrance already open. The portrait of the Fat Lady was static, its rotund, usually chatty occupant frozen and mute, just strokes of paint on a canvas. A quick look at the other portraits told him that the Fat Lady wasn't the only one to be struck inanimate. Every painting was just that – a painting, unmoving and silent._

_He stepped through the hole into the common room, not surprised to find it empty. Half eaten chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties gave testament to a midnight feast; a book was draped over an arm chair, and there was a partially constructed exploding snap card castle on the floor. All normal, except for the absence of the children responsible for the clutter._

_Stepping around the abandoned mess, Harry made his way upstairs to his dormitory, wand illuminating his path. Even Ron's Chudley Cannons poster was inactive, the usual mad swirl of orange robes stilled. He changed into jeans and one of Mrs Weasly's Christmas jumpers, and immediately felt a little better – there was something about wandering around Hogwarts dressed in his pyjamas that made him feel vulnerable._

_Rummaging through his trunk, he found his Invisibility Cloak, the Marauders map, and the Sneakascope, and shoved them into his satchel. He had no idea what was going on, but he wanted to be prepared, and those three items had helped him time and time again._

_Slinging the bag over his shoulder, Harry ran to the main stair chamber. The dozens of flights of stairs, usually in constant motion, were as still as regular muggle staircases, and the absence of the grind of shifting stone was peculiar. He made his way down to the main entrance of the castle, and tugged on one of the massive doors, using all his weight to pull the oak slab toward him._

_The open door revealed a massive black expanse, smooth and featureless as marble. It reflected no light; in fact, it seemed to absorb it, the spark of light at the tip of Harry's wand guttering like a candle caught in a draft._

_Harry stretched out a hand and tentatively touched the blackness. It was icy cold, and the greasy surface yielded slightly to his touch. His mind filled with a soothing buzz of white noise, his anxiety disappearing, and he found himself leaning forward into the dark barrier. With a gasp, he pulled himself back, scared of how comforting he found the feeling of nothingness, and he saw that trails of the oily substance clung to him like melted tar, winding itself around his fingers and creeping up his arm. As it advanced insidiously over his skin, it first burned, and then froze, leaving the flesh completely numb. _

_Letting out a cry, Harry shook his hand in an effort to rid it of the mess, and then pointed his wand at it, desperately searching for the right spell. Utter panic was beginning to set in, and his revulsion at the sight of the slick mass made it hard to focus. Just as the tar reached his elbow, he shouted 'Evanesco!', and it disappeared, leaving blistered, reddened skin in its wake. _

_Slamming the door shut, Harry backed away, breathing harshly, wanting to cry but forcing the tears back. He was alone, and he was trapped in a place that had once felt safe, but now seemed to be his prison._


	2. Chapter 2

Just like in Muggle hospitals, St. Mungo's smelled like antiseptic and illness.

They Apparated in the hallway of the fourth floor, beneath a large sign that read: "Fourth floor: Spell damage." MacGonagall released Ron and Hermione's hands and straightened her hat; it had become lopsided during their journey. Snape arrived beside them, and by the foul look on his face, he hadn't enjoyed the trip.

They spotted Dumbledore as he was stepping from Harry's room, closing the door quietly behind him. Hermione thought she saw him scowl at the closed door, before he spotted them and carefully changed his expression to something more neutral.

He nodded to them. "I told the healer you would be visiting soon," he told them. "She will only allow a short visit. You may go in together if you are ready."

"I'm not ready," Ron whispered, but if Hermione heard him, she didn't respond. She charged forward toward Harry's room, and Ron had no choice but to follow her, despite the uneasiness in his gut.

The hospital room was dimly lit, and in the middle of the small room, their dearest friend lay in a hospital bed. The dark circles beneath Harry's eyes stood out against the stark whiteness of his bloodless face.

To Ron, Harry looked more dead than asleep.

The healer, dressed in lime-green robes with hair of the same color, hovered in the corner of the room, gazing at them sharply as they stepped inside.

"I said he was too ill to have visitors," she said. "But the headmaster insisted."

"We're his friends," Hermione said.

"His best friends," Ron added.

The healer was unimpressed. "You have five minutes."

They approached the bed quietly, cautiously. Just as they were close enough to reach out and touch Harry, Ron hesitated. Hermione turned to question him, but Ron made a strange sound in his throat before he broke away and hurried from the room.

She grimaced and turned to Harry. "He's fine," she told him. "He's probably given himself an upset stomach. You saw how much he ate at breakfast this morning."

If he had been awake, Harry would have agreed. But now he remained perfectly still.

Breakfast seemed so very far away from the present moment.

Suddenly needing to touch him, to reassure herself that he was not dead, Hermione took Harry's hand and felt the icy cold of his skin.

The temperature outside during the Quidditch match had hovered around the freezing point, and Harry's skin seemed to still retain the chill.

"He's cold. He needs another blanket," she said, her voice breaking. The healer studiously ignored her.

"Fine," Hermione muttered. She picked up Harry's right hand, pressing it between hers, trying to bring warmth into his fingers. After a moment, she gently lay his hand down, tucking it beneath the blanket, then picked up the left and repeated the warming motion. She was relieved when his skin responded, warming to her touch.

"Two minutes," said the healer.

Ignoring her, Hermione squeezed Harry's fingers one last time, then tucked his left hand under the blanket. She leaned close to whisper in his ear. "Harry. Harry, can you hear me?"

"He can't," said the healer.

"You don't know that!" Hermione shouted.

The healer stared her down. Then, her thin lips parting in a wicked little smile, she said, "Time… is… up."

Blinking hard against the tears, Hermione leaned over once again and whispered, "Harry… we're here. We won't leave you. I promise."

Harry remained motionless, as still as death. Unable to tear her eyes from him, Hermione backed out of the room.

In the hallway, a crowd had assembled. Hagrid had brought Fred, George and Ginny from Hogwarts and they stood in a semi-circle with their professors. Ron, looking sheepish and still slightly green, had joined them. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had just arrived, and Mrs. Weasley- with her eyes bright with tears and her voice wavering- was angrily demanding answers about who had hurt the boy who was nearly a son.

"This is where they keep the patients with spell damage," she cried. "Who would put a spell on Harry?"

"Lots of people," George muttered, thinking of the slew of anti-Potter buttons he'd seen on the school grounds.

"The fourth floor isn't just for spell damage," Dumbledore said quietly. "It's for illnesses that are unliftable.

"Harry cannot be awakened."

"I don't understand…" Mrs. Weasley whispered.

"It appears the event was accidental," Dumbledore said. "He was struck with a bludger. It was moving so quickly that no one saw it… not even Harry.

"We did not know what had happened until the healers discovered the bruise on the back of Harry's head," Dumbledore explained. "The skull fracture has already been healed, but we are concerned that Harry is not showing any signs of awakening."

For a moment, Mrs. Weasley looked as if she would break down completely. Then, summoning her motherly courage, she straightened her spine and announced, "I want to see him."

"Bad idea, Mum," Ron said. "That witch in there barely let us in to see him."

"He needs his rest, Molly…" Dumbledore began, but his words fell silent as she turned on him, rage in her eyes. "No one," she hissed, "is going to tell me I cannot see that boy."

She stomped into Harry's room, leaving several spectators with their mouths agape. The Weasley children, however, didn't seem slightly surprised. Nor did Mr. Weasley, who draped his arm around his only daughter and squeezed her tightly against him. Ginny, who had not uttered a word- not a single word- since the accident, turned into her father's embrace and choked.

A moment later, the healer scurried out of the room, looking over her shoulder as if she feared the devil himself was on her heels.

"That's my Mum," Ron said proudly. "Everyone's afraid of her."

_After his encounter with the biting dark that enshrouded Hogwarts, Harry had retreated to the familiar comfort of the Gryffindor common room. Tucked into an overstuffed armchair, he healed his injured arm and attempted to make sense of the madness he found himself in._

_What kind of magic could steal away hundreds of people in what appeared to be a split second, and leave a solitary boy behind, a boy who was seemingly marked for strangeness?_

_His mind gave him the answer; Voldemort. The only other Wizard with the power to do something like this was Dumbledore, and the idea of him trapping Harry in the only place that had ever felt like home was ridiculous. No, it made more sense for it to be Voldemort. It was his style – he liked to divide and conquer. He was quite happy to have a crowd of Death Eaters jeering him on, but he preferred his enemies to be alone._

_Harry retreated further into the embrace of the chair, feeling small and insignificant, clinging to his wand for comfort. He was barely 15 years old, and carried the weight - or at least the fate - of a world on his shoulders; that burden was already beginning to crush him. How much more could a teenaged boy be expected to take and not break?_

_He took off his glasses and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, hard enough to see stars. He sat like that for several long moments, knowing that if he moved, if he opened his eyes, he'd fall apart._

_'Pull yourself together, Harry', he admonished himself, out loud. That was enough for him to square his shoulders, lift his head, only for him to startle at the sight of Ron and Hermione standing before him, watching silently._

_He jumped to his feet, overwhelmed with relief, reaching for his friends. They took a step back, moving away from his hands. 'Ron? Hermione?' He was quicker this time, Quidditch training coming to the fore, but his grab for Hermione's arm ended up with his hand going right through her._

_Ron's eyes grew wide, and he began to fade away, shaking his head, the colour leaching out of him until he dissolved into a pearlescent mist, which in turn evaporated._

_Hermione was a study in barely controlled anger, her mouth set in a grim line, her eyes tight, dark, glinting. She began to talk, her mouth moving, but no voice issuing from between her lips. Once upon a time, Harry would have laughed at the idea of a mute Hermione Granger, but now it scared him._

_Then her expression morphed to one of extreme sadness, and she, too, began to dissipate; only then did her voice reach Harry's ears, a soft susurrus, fading in and out like its owner. 'Harry … leave you …'_

_ She was gone, leaving behind a whisper of smoke._

_ Harry struggled to understand what he had just seen. Ron, scared, fearful – of him? – and Hermione, so angry, angrier than he'd ever seen her, both of them as insubstantial as …_

_ …Ghosts._

_ His chest hurt as the realization hit home. He didn't want to believe – couldn't believe – that his two best friends were dead, but they were so pale, so intangible …_

_ Lost in thought, Harry shouted in surprise as Mrs. Weasley appeared right in front of him. He'd thought that Hermione was angry – that was nothing compared to the look on Mrs. Weasley's face. Like her son before her, she was bleeding colour with every second that she stood before him. Shaking her finger, eyes narrowed, her mute mouth was all but spitting out words, and Harry didn't need to hear them to know that they were not complimentary. _

_ He shrunk back into the chair, trying to get away from the sheer force of the woman, watching as she disintegrated into white wisps of nothing. Once again, Harry could hear her voice just as she vanished. 'Not good enough … just let me at that boy …how DARE you … my child … lying there …_

_ '…Dead'._

_ The last word echoed in Harry's head. Now he cried, now he gave into the tears that had threatened ever since he discovered that he couldn't leave the castle. Maybe they were all dead, maybe – maybe he hadn't fought hard enough, had lost to Voldemort, killed by the curse that had failed to do the job 14 years ago … and this was his reward, a Hell of his own making, doomed to be haunted by the people he'd failed, let die …_

_ He dragged his sleeve across his face, smearing snot and tears. The wool made his nose itch, and he reached into his satchel, searching for a tissue._

_ His hand brushed against a piece of parchment, and he snatched it out of the bag. The Marauders Map! He'd forgotten completely about it. Just holding it bought him some comfort – this was a little piece of his father, of Sirius and Lupin._

_ Tapping his wand against the stained paper, he hoarsely murmured 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good', his throat sore from crying, and watched as the map of Hogwarts blossomed on the page, like ink spreading on blotting paper, the magic unaffected by the tears that had fallen upon the parchment._

_ There were just two dots on the map, both solitary, both still, at opposite ends of the castle. Harry James Potter, in Gryffindor Common Room; and, in Slytherin Common Room …_

_ Tom Marvolo Riddle._


	3. Chapter 3

Ch. 3

The tea room at St. Mungo's was a dismal place; the tea was lukewarm, the sandwiches stale and the conversation gloomy.

Snape had already returned to Hogwarts, but the others remained. They sat at a table, barely touching the food in front of them.

There wasn't much to say. Harry was stabilized, but unresponsive. There wasn't a potion or spell in existence that could help, and so they had no choice but to simply wait for something in his condition to change.

The waiting and silence and quiet sighs affected Ginny to her very soul, and despite her father trying to goad her out of her silence, she finally excused herself to go back down to the fourth floor. "To check on Mum," she explained.

Molly Weasley was fussing about Harry's room when Ginny quietly pushed open the door. The room was bright and warm, thanks to a "sun" which Molly had hung above Harry's bed, sending much-needed warmth into his body. In addition, Molly had magically grown a soft, fresh-smelling grass beneath their feet and had painted the walls a sky blue.

Mrs. Weasley smiled. "Hello, darling."

She held out her hand, beckoning her daughter to come near. "Come hold his hand. Let him know you are here."

The older woman summoned a chair close beside Harry's bed and sat her daughter in it. Ginny seemed afraid to be in the same room as Harry, much less to touch him, so Mrs. Weasley took her daughter's hand and joined it with Harry's. "There, now."

In her "I'm your mother, don't tell me no" voice, she added, "I know you're frightened, but now is the time to be strong. We raised you to be strong, Ginny, and Harry needs you. He's probably wondering where you've been."

"Do you really think he knows whether I'm here or not, Mum?" the girl whispered.

"Of course he knows," Mrs. Weasley said briskly. "He can hear you and he can feel your presence. Undoubtedly he's frightened by what's happened. Comfort him, love."

Ginny nodded, her fear melting away at her mother's wise words. She raised Harry's hand and held it tightly against her cheek. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but still tears came, leaking from the corners of her tightly closed eyelids.

"It's all right, Harry," she mumbled.

She cleared her throat and repeated herself, stronger this time. "It's all right, Harry. I'm here now."

Mrs. Weasley stood beside her, gently petting her daughter's smooth auburn hair, trying to comfort her own child even as the child- no, Molly realized, the young woman- tried to comfort Harry.

Ginny's warm tears coursed over Harry's knuckles, and she pressed her lips against his curled fingers, speaking gently to him. She was just telling him about some bit of school gossip when she gasped, the words dying on her lips and her eyes widening.

"Mum!"

"What is it?" Mrs. Weasley was immediately alarmed.

"He…" Ginny swallowed convulsively. "He squeezed my hand."

Mrs. Weasley's eyes welled with sudden tears, and she nodded. "That's our good boy, Harry."

"Do it again, Harry," Ginny whispered. "Please."

But if Harry heard her, he couldn't obey, and the brightness and hope slowly faded from Ginny's eyes as the hours passed without another squeeze from Harry. Still, she held his hand tightly, watching his face for the slightest sign of wakening.

Outside the hospital room window, the skies grew dark. Ginny, still seated beside Harry, began to nod off, her cheeks still damp from the last of her tears.

When the door opened, Molly turned toward it, ready to stare down the healer if necessary. But it wasn't the healer who came inside; it was her husband.

"Easy, Molly," he said, a tired smile on his face. "No one is here to do battle with you."

Behind him, Professor Dumbledore and Professor MacGonagall stepped inside the room, their faces etched in relief.

"We were concerned when Ginny didn't return," Dumbledore said quietly.

"She's exhausted," Molly said. "But I didn't have the heart to tell her to go."

Mr. Weasley looped his arms around Ginny and lifted her, intending to hold her in his arms and Apparate her back to school for the night. But when her hand dropped away from Harry's, the loss of contact was enough to jolt Ginny from sleep. She struggled to free herself from her father, not awake enough to fully comprehend her surroundings. She sobbed Harry's name and fought her father so hard that Mr. Weasley had no choice but to set her back on the grass. Once on her feet, the girl began to sway from exhaustion.

"All right, dear." Molly lowered the guard rail of Harry's bed; she and her husband settled Ginny against the edge of the mattress. The mattress was so large- Mr. Weasley suspected his wife had enlarged it to make Harry more comfortable- that the two did not even touch. When she was next to Harry once more, Ginny immediately rolled on to her side and drifted back to sleep. Molly draped a spare blanket over Ginny's limp body.

"We need to take the children back to Hogwart's," MacGonagall said. "It's late and they have classes in the morning."

Mrs. Weasley nodded. Clearly, she had no intention of leaving Harry's bedside.

"We've spoken with Harry's healer," Dumbledore said. "There is little more they can do for him, except take care of his basic needs and pray for the best."

"Stop speaking as if he isn't here," Mrs. Weasley said. "He can hear you.

"He squeezed Ginny's hand earlier." She added this last sentence with triumph in her voice.

The professors exchanged sad glances; when Dumbledore spoke, he chose his words carefully. "The healers warned us that there might be… reflexive movement. But that we shouldn't get our hopes up."

Molly set her jaw; her husband recognized that expression and knew his wife's mind was set on something. He suspected he knew what that 'something' was.

"They don't know everything, these healers," Molly said. "His friends, his family can certainly take better care of him than they can here."

She took a deep breath, knowing that what she was about to say would cause protest among those assembled in the room.

"Madam Pomfrey was here earlier," she began. "We discussed what would need to be done for Harry's long-term care."

"Are you suggesting…?" Dumbledore began, but MacGonagall interrupted. "She's suggesting precisely what we've been thinking, Albus, what we've been discussing these past hours," she said. "Madam Pomfrey is one of the best healers there is. In addition, we have a school full of students who are studying healing."

"We cannot ask Madam Pomfrey to orchestrate such round-the-clock care," Dumbledore protested. "She has other patients, other responsibilities."

"I'll come to Hogwart's," Molly said.

The headmaster shook his head. "We cannot ask you to do that."

"Professor Dumbledore, all of my children are away from home now," Molly said. "I have free time to spare."

"We could take Harry back to the Burrow," Mr. Weasley suggested.

"It would be too difficult for Harry to be away from his friends," his wife replied. Her eyes drifted to her daughter; in her sleep, Ginny had found Harry's hand and held it tightly once again.

"It would be too difficult," Molly repeated.

Her husband nodded, not entirely comfortable with his daughter innocently sleeping next to Potter and not entirely happy with the idea of his wife being gone from the Burrow.

"I'll be home every night to cook your dinner," she said, as if reading his mind. Silently, she implored him, "It's Harry."

He nodded his agreement. There was little he wouldn't do for Harry Potter.

"It's settled then," he said, returning his wife's smile.

"I'll alert Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore said quietly. "And tell her we are bringing Harry home as soon as his healer allows it."


	4. Chapter 4

_Harry stared at the small brown dot, transfixed. The name looked so benign, written in neat, compact script, placid in the middle of Slytherin Common Room. It seemed to him that the name should look … well, different, reflecting the evil that it represented._

_The speck began to move, back and forth, and Harry readied his wand, only to realize that Voldemort was pacing, and not an immediate threat._

_He watched the mark for what felt like hours, but was probably minutes, before flinging the map onto the table with a grunt of frustration. He couldn't just sit and stare at a map for hours upon end, waiting for Voldemort to make his move. He'd never been one to just wait – he preferred to take a deep breath and dive in headlong. Why postpone the inevitable? As much as Hermione had scolded him about his hot-headedness in the past, it was a method that worked for him_

_He got to his feet and began to pace, finding a certain irony in the fact that he and Voldemort apparently shared more than the ability to speak Parseltongue. Harry thought better and faster on the move; keeping his body occupied made his mind sharper._

_As he prowled the room like a caged lion, he heard a high pitched humming from behind him, and turned just in time to see the Marauders Map go up in bile green flames. By the time he'd pointed his wand at the conflagration, the map was already a pile of ash, beyond the point that Aguamenti would be of any use. The Sneakascope was screeching madly in his satchel, so he silenced it with a tap of his wand. He didn't need a cheap piece of enchanted tin to tell him that an enemy was at hand._

_The Invisibility Cloak was still in one piece, so he left the soft flow of silver where it was, loathe to even touch it in case it caught fire. Voldemort was obviously watching him somehow, and had destroyed the map, knowing that it gave Harry an advantage, however slight._

_He looked up from his bookbag to find Ginny sitting in the chair next to his, solemn and silent, tears rolling down her face. She looked so forlorn that his first instinct was to hug her, but he dropped his arms, remembering that it was a futile gesture._

_Dragging his chair around, he maneuvered it until they were sitting face to face, close enough that if she had been more than mere vapour, their knees would have touched._

_Ginny's mouth was down turned with misery, eyes puffy and red, and her hair damp, clinging to her cheeks, but it suddenly struck Harry that she was remarkably pretty. He didn't know when it had happened, but somehow, she was no longer just Ron's little sister. The woman she was going to be in a few short years showed in her face, strong and beautiful, and just looking at her gave him an odd little thrill in his stomach. Cho made him nervous; Ginny made him glow._

_For some reason, everything about Ginny was vibrant, almost painfully so. She looked real, unlike Ron, Hermione or Mrs. Weasley. He could see hints of gold sparking in her hair, count every freckle dotted across the bridge of her nose. She seemed so small and fragile, sitting there ramrod straight, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap, so tightly that her fingers appeared white and bloodless._

_He looked into her brown eyes, and frowned. She didn't seem to be able to see him, despite the fact that he was directly within her line of vision. She looked right through him, her eyes focused on something beyond him._

_'Ginny – Ginny, I'm so sorry,' he whispered. 'I just … I don't remember what happened, but I think I …' He swallowed, ducking his head momentarily. 'I think I got you all killed.'_

_Her lip began to quiver, and fresh tears welled up. She raised a shaking hand to wipe them away, and as she did, a whispering began to build. Quiet and low pitched, it was still obvious that the voice belonged to Mrs. Weasley. '… frightened … Ginny …'_

_Ginny extended a hand towards him, beseeching, and he caught for it, not caring that his fingers would go straight through hers, so desperate for even the illusion of contact that it didn't matter. Their fingers met, interlocking, and they both gasped in unison._

_'Mum!' she shouted, and this time, her voice and mouth were working as one. Harry held on to her, warmth spreading through his hand, through his body, willing her to stay even as she began to fade. Her face blurred, melted into nothing, followed by her shoulders, soft pink skin and bright red hair blending into homogonous white as he watched. Her hand was the last thing to lose form, leaving him with a memory of pressure against his fingertips, soft and warm._

_He heard laughter behind him, and he turned to see a man lounging in the common room entrance. He was tall and lithe, and arrogantly good looking, dressed in robes of darkest black, a Slytherin House scarf draped incongruously, yet elegantly, around his neck._

_Tom Riddle. Voldemort. Older, much older, than the Tom Riddle of the diary, but still recognisable. His face was handsome, yet somehow warped; red rimmed eyes and a thin lipped mouth, twisted into a sneer even though he was smiling. Evil radiated off of him, but along with the sense of menace, there was a charisma, a sick kind of charm. Dumbledore had told Harry that Voldemort was a charismatic man, had to be to inspire the kind of loyalty his Death Eaters displayed, but Harry had never believed it, until now._

_He glared at Voldemort, refusing to be intimidated, his fingers repeatedly clenching and unclenching around his wand. Anger exploded in him, and he forced it back down, resisting the urge to curse Voldemort in a dozen different ways. The man didn't seem to be in any great hurry to duel; his arms were folded across his chest, and his smile had turned into a self-satisfied smirk._

_'What do you want?' Harry spat. 'Come to finish the job off? Not killed enough kids recently?'_

_Voldemort just kept grinning at him, like an indulgent uncle, making Harry itch to knock the patronising git on his arse. It'd be much more satisfying to lay into him with feet and fists. A wand was too clean, too clinical. He wanted to feel the snap of bone, see the spurt of blood ..._

_He went as far as to take a step forward, and stopped himself. What was he thinking? He couldn't just walk up to Voldemort and punch him, as tempting as it was. 'What are you doing to me?' he hissed. 'Stop messing with my head.'_

_Voldemort shrugged, turned his back to Harry to leave. Just as he stepped through the portrait hole, he twisted around to face Harry again, this time wearing his true face, foul, hairless and reptilian, overlaid on Tom's fine features, the smirk now an obscene snarl, his eyes the colour of blood. Then he was gone, Disapparating with a loud crack._

_Harry let his body shudder hard once, twice, before quelling his reaction and forcing himself to calm down. He couldn't afford the luxury of being able to go to pieces. He still didn't have any idea of what was happening, but until he did, he had to be constantly alert, in control._

_He pushed his sweaty hair back off of his forehead, and froze. His scar was gone, his fingers moving over soft, unblemished skin, instead of a welt of scar tissue._

_A mirror hung over one of the fireplaces, and he stepped in front of it. Bewildered, he stared at his reflection. The Harry in the mirror was ghostly white, his head wrapped in a bandage, and big, black bruises ringed his eyes. Harry ran his hand over his head and face, unable to feel the injuries that the mirror showed him. He felt normal, despite all evidence to the contrary._

_Pulling his gaze away from the mirror, he tried to think about the events of the previous day. He knew it was a Sunday, so he hadn't attended any lessons, but that was it. No memory of breakfast, or if he'd played Wizard Chess, or walked down by the lake. The day had been wiped out of his memory._

_Voldemort had been poking around in his head; that much was evident in the red haze of fury that had descended over Harry. It seemed that messing with Harry's emotions wasn't the only thing he'd done._

_So what had he made Harry forget? And why?_


	5. Chapter 5

(Editorial note: The authors have suckered… er… enlisted the help of a wonderful writer to beta this story. The poor girl made the mistake of sending us feedback on an earlier chapter and we immediately begged her to beta for us.

She betaed this chapter, and it's a much better piece because of it. We wanted to thank her publicly for her assistance.)

ASLEEP, HE DREAMED

chapter 5

The hospital wing at Hogwarts was a breath of fresh air, quite literally. The floor to ceiling windows had been flung wide, allowing for a gentle autumn breeze. The rustling leaves of the trees seemed to welcome Harry back to Hogwarts.

If Harry was aware of his surroundings, he didn't show it. In fact, he seemed unaffected by his busy day, during which he'd been Apparated back to the castle and settled in the bed situated closest to Madam Pomfrey's office.

Ginny had had a full day of classes, and her mother had insisted she attend each and every one. When Ginny had protested, saying she wanted to welcome Harry home, Mrs.Weasley reminded her daughter that he would still be there after supper and Ginny could visit then.

The morning was quiet with Harry's friends all in class. By mid-afternoon, however, he'd had a string of visitors, including Hagrid who had gleefully promised to bring "a friend to cheer yeh up" the next day.

Ron and Hermione came directly from their last class, sinking into chairs at Harry's bedside. They were both exhausted from the worry and lack of sleep the night before.

Ron seemed only slightly less frightened of seeing Harry unconscious. He was swallowing hard.

Hermione kept glancing in his direction, hoping he wouldn't be sick again. When she had decided that Ron wasn't going to bolt from the room or be sick on the floor, she allowed herself to return her gaze to Harry.

She felt relieved to be away from the hospital. Here, she could sit beside Harry, to touch his hand and shoulder and reassure herself that he was still

breathing.

Hermione had brought her schoolbooks and soon she had pulled out her Potions textbook, reciting aloud the properties of blood-letting juice. Secretly, she had to smile a little at the thought of forcing Harry to do his lessons without him being able to do anything about it. "You'll thank me for it later, Harry," she told him.

Ron, however, was more than able to complain when she began to read their lessons aloud. "What do you want to do, Hermione, put us both to sleep?"

He glanced at Harry. "Sorry, mate," he mumbled.

Even with his friends quarreling in front of him, Harry did not respond.

Undaunted, Hermione read until the sun was beginning to set over the mountains, and Hermione did not realize how long she had been sitting there until Mrs. Weasley was gently shaking her shoulder.

"Hermione dear, Harry's had an exciting day," she said. "He needs a bath and then some supper."

"A bath?" Ron squeaked. "Who's going to give him a bath?"

Mrs. Weasley had magically summoned a basin of warm, soapy water and a washcloth. She glowered at her son, saying, "I've raised seven children. I believe I can manage a sponge bath."

"Yeah, but can Harry?" Ron grabbed Hermione's arms. "Come on. We don't want to see this."

Mrs. Weasley watched them depart, amusement in her eyes. Then she turned back to Harry, her voice tender. "All right, love, let's freshen you up."

Harry was still sporting the dirt and grass smears from his fall the day before. Gently, she scrubbed away each stain. By the time she had wiped down his arms and legs, the water in the bowl was gray; with a wave of her wand she vanished it. With another flourish of her wand, tubes appeared, suspended over his head and snaking their way from beneath the blankets. In a matter of moments, the tubes had nourished the patient and had carried away the wastes of his body. They were cumbersome, but even the world of magic had not been able to come up with a more efficient method of sustaining an unconscious body.

Banishing the tubes with a flick of her wand, Mrs. Weasley then tucked the blankets snug across his chest. "There we are," she said, satisfied with her work. Leaning closer to her patient, she said, "I'm going home now, dear. Madam Pomfrey will be with you until the morning and then I'll be back. Now, you just rest and get better. We'll take care of everything."

She indulged herself for a moment, stroking her fingers over the quiet boy's forehead. Her eyes grew teary, and she shook her head to clear the sadness that suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. "You'll be fine, love," she whispered.

Quickly, she turned away and began to walk from the room. At the doors, however, she paused, then returned to his bedside, reached for the black-rimmed eyeglasses that lay on the table beside his bed.

She settled his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Just in case you open your eyes," she quietly explained.


	6. Chapter 6

_Harry had no idea how much time had passed since he'd woken in the Hospital Wing. It felt like just a few hours, but, for all he knew, it had been days, or weeks, or months … time had no place in this strange-yet-familiar world. The majestic Grandfather clock that usually announced the time on the hour with a lilting Welsh voice had stopped, its hands frozen at twelve. The light coming in through the windows remained silvery, the moon and stars paused in their travels across the heavens._

_He perched uneasily on the edge of a chair that he had backed into a corner, offering him a view of every entrance to the room. He hated just sitting there, hated the sense of anticipation that was building up in his stomach, leaving him feeling on edge and jittery. His leg was bouncing constantly in a futile effort to rid his body of the pent up nervous energy._

_Indecision wasn't a trait he usually possessed, so to find himself debating a course of action was, at best, frustrating, and, at worst, disheartening. It was dangerous to sit and think for too long; each passing minute saw an increase in his level of nervousness, leaving him with sweaty palms, a dry mouth, and a racing heart. The legendary Gryffindor courage seemed to have deserted him when he needed it most. _

_Distraction from his increasingly introspective state of mind returned in the form of his ghostly visitors, who settled into chairs and began their silent chatter. Their smiles were genuine this time, particularly from Fred and George, who were telling inaudible jokes and grinning widely._

_Harry watched the steady stream of his friends, making no effort to interact with anyone, content to just look at them. The only person that seemed to respond to his touch and voice was Ginny, and she wasn't anywhere to be seen._

_Hagrid made his first appearance, no smaller in his non-corporeal form. His beetle black eyes were shiny with unshed tears, and his massive hands kept creeping up to tug at his beard, but he seemed to be trying hard to be cheerful. _

_The Keeper of the Keys was followed by Ron and Hermione, who sat together. Ron still looked scared and somewhat nauseated, but gradually relaxed, his lanky body sprawling in the chair. Hermione read from a book, her voice reaching Harry as a softly pitched hum. He couldn't distinguish any words; it was like being underwater and hearing people talk from above._

_Ron rolled his eyes and muttered something that made Hermione smirk before she carried on with her reading. Harry grinned, remembering so many evenings spent just like this, with Hermione's nose stuck in a book, oblivious to the fact that her two best friends were just pretending to listen. _

_Eventually they left, shooed off by Mrs. Weasley. Ron seemed mortified at something, and Hermione frowned at him, obviously annoyed._

_Mrs. Weasley bustled around doing something that Harry couldn't see, but as she worked, a feeling of warmth and protection folded itself around him like a down-filled duvet. He felt safe and secure for the first time since this madness had started._

_Job done, Mrs. Weasley leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Harry's cheek. There was a faint pressure there, like a feather stroking over his skin, and that sensation stayed even after she vanished._

_Harry wasn't alone for long. With his friends gone, Voldemort chose that moment to appear, slinking into the room like a panther. He was still silent, still dressed in midnight black robes. The Slytherin House scarf remained, but it was now adorned with a bile green 'Potter Stinks' badge._

_The jittery feeling drained away from Harry now that Voldemort had returned, and it was replaced by anger, filling him up from the tips of his toes to the top of his tousled head. This was the man that had killed his parents and Cedric. Although Harry was petrified, he wasn't going to give Voldemort the satisfaction of seeing The Boy-Who-Lived in fear of him._

_Voldemort grinned at Harry, and then began to gesture with his wand, conjuring emerald coloured smoke that coalesced into James and Lily Potter. The wraiths circled Harry, moaning mournfully, their dead eyes wide and blank. He did his best to ignore them, staring steadily at Voldemort. He refused to be cowed by a party trick, even though it tore at his heart to see the image of his parents distorted to suit Voldemort's needs._

_He cast a weak and sickly Patronus that was little more than silver mist, but it did the job, chasing away the phantoms. The look of triumph he shot at Voldemort was fiercely defiant and unwavering. Voldemort just raised an eyebrow, unconcerned, and began to spin his wand between his fingers the way a majorette would twirl a baton, the long, slim piece of wood in constant motion._

_Harry deliberately turned his back on Voldemort in a deliberate show of contempt, casually draping his legs over one arm of the chair and resting his shoulders against the other. As he shifted his bottom into a more comfortable position, he caught a flash of red hair from the corner of his eye__and turned in the chair to look for the cause. "Ginny?"_

_He couldn't see her, but he knew she was there, knew that it was Ginny. Her presence made him calm and quietly confident in a way that nobody else could._

_He left the chair to go in search of the youngest Weasley, hyper-aware of Voldemort watching him. He thought he saw her duck behind a curtain and moved to follow her, but was stopped short by a sudden tug low in his abdomen. It didn't hurt, but his legs turned to jelly and he fell, clutching at his stomach. The pulling sensation intensified, and he grimaced in almost-pain, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the way his world suddenly shifted on its axis._

When Harry opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the Common Room, and Voldemort was gone. Harry was back in the Hospital Wing, tucked up in bed. The table at the foot of the bed was overflowing with presents and cards, and a huge, solitary zinnia that was the colour of tangerines scented the air with its sweet perfume.

He struggled to sit upright, his body trembling with the effort. "Hello?" His throat produced a dry little rasp of a voice that probably didn't carry any further than the privacy curtain around the bed. As he tried to move his legs out of the bed, a curious feeling of detachment washed over him and he found himself listing to the side, unable to keep his balance. A roaring sound pressed against his eardrums, like the remembered echo of the ocean inside a conch shell, and his mouth filled with a metallic taste, as if he'd been licking a knut.

Then Ginny was there, running toward him from the other side of the room. She was flesh and blood this time, not a spirit.

"Ginny!" he managed to shout, before his jaw locked shut and his back arched from the bed, his limbs rigid. Each time his body shivered, the top of his head banged against the bars of the headboard, and his clawed hands twisted in the sheets. He tried to reach for her but his body wouldn't respond, _and then he was back on the floor of the Common Room, twitching as what felt like electric shocks sparked through his nervous system._

_A hand touched his shoulder. "Relax, Harry. Just concentrate on your breathing." The voice sounded oddly familiar, only it couldn't possibly belong to the person that Harry thought it did. It had to be wishful thinking on his part. People didn't just come back to life three months after dying in a blaze of green._

_The speaker leaned over him, and Harry sucked in his breath. The face matched the voice - blue eyes, brown hair, and an almost aristocratic cast to his features. But … he was dead. Harry had watched him die, cried over his dead body, so how could he be crouched there, apparently alive?_

_"Cedric?" he whispered._


	7. Chapter 7

AUTHORS' NOTE: If this chapter is any good at all, it's because of our magnificent beta reader. This chapter was driving us crazy, and our beta truly showed us the way. Thank you.

AUTHORS' OTHER NOTE: We haven't received a lot of reviews for this story, which makes the ones we have received even more precious. Thank you to all who have taken the time to let us know you're enjoying the story. It means a lot.

ASLEEP, HE DREAMED

Ch. 7

Ginny looked up from her textbook and sighed, idly reaching to knead at the sore muscles in the back of her neck.

She had spent an endless evening in the Gryffindor common room, doing her best to study for her Herbology test. Unfortunately, her mind had remained with the young man lying unconscious in the hospital wing, and facts that normally would have taken a few hours to learn still eluded her.

But it was midnight, and her eyes were gritty with weariness. Suddenly not caring whether she passed the test or not, she closed her book and set it aside.

A few minutes later, Ginny tiptoed into the hospital wing.

The curtains around Harry's bed had been drawn closed, but she could see Madam Pomfrey's outline as she sat in her office, slumped over her desk. The healer was snoring, her cheek pressed against the pages of the book she'd been reading.

Creeping closer, making absolutely sure she didn't make a sound, Ginny peeked at the book, noticed the title chapter: "Coma after head trauma." The book, with its static, two-dimensional photographs and tiny text, was clearly a Muggles publication.

Careful not to awaken the healer, Ginny slipped silently between the curtains.

At last she was standing beside Harry. It was all she had thought about all day: getting through her classes- during which she hadn't been able to concentrate at all- and getting back to Harry. She'd been terrified of the thought that Harry might think she wasn't coming back.

Weariness washed over her, and she sat on the edge of the bed; dizzy from fatigue,

she gingerly lay down to rest her head on the very edge of Harry's pillow.

For a moment, she just enjoyed the feeling of being this close to him. She could hear his breath, slow and shallow, and when she gently lay her hand across his pyjama-covered chest, she could feel his heart beating beneath her fingers.

She imagined them years in the future, lying like this on a lazy Saturday morning, in a flat of their own. Resting with their heads together, as she watched him sleep, just as she did now.

Harry's steady, quiet breathing lulled her nearly to sleep, and her eyes slipped closed.

"I'll just rest for a moment," she whispered. "And then I'll go."

But she had no chance to rest; at that moment, Harry's breath began to quicken, and the heartbeat began to race.

Ginny sat up, peering into Harry's face. She cried out in surprise.

Harry's dull and glassy eyes were half-open.

"Harry! Harry, can you see me?" She reached to take his shoulder, to shake him a little as if she could pull him from his stupor. She heard the footsteps beyond the curtains, and she leaped to her feet. "Someone's coming," she squeaked.

She could only imagine the amount of points that would be taken from Gryffindor if someone found her in the hospital wing at this hour.

As Ginny parted the curtains to find a suitable hiding place, she heard a voice croak,

"Gi… nnnn…"

She whirled around, suddenly not caring who discovered her, and saw Harry looking straight at her, his lips tremoring with his effort to speak. She rushed back to his side. "Harry, I'm here… Harry!"

Harry's eyes rolled and he threw his head back as if he'd been plunged into ice water. His arms and legs stiffened, then locked as the rest of his body began to tremor. Strangled, almost inhuman sounds tore from his throat.

A moment later, Madam Pomfrey threw back the curtains. "Mr. Potter!" she yelled, as if she could get his attention. She could not; his eyes had closed and his head was banging rhythmically against the headboard, the veins in his neck bulging from the overextension.

Madam Pomfrey uttered a protection charm, and immediately metal bars appeared at the sides of Harry's bed, preventing him from tumbling to the floor. The bars rattled as his body flailed wildly. The healer tried to conjure a calming charm, but it had no effect. Harry's lip began to bleed from where he'd bitten it.

With horror, Ginny realized Harry's face was turning blue.

"No!" the girl cried, and Madam Pomfrey turned to her, as if seeing her for the first time. The healer was mortified that a student was witnessing such violence. "To your house, Miss Weasley!" she shouted.

Ginny backed away, tangling herself in the curtains, nearly falling in her haste to do as the healer demanded. Once she managed to free herself, she ran through the shadowy hospital wing, toward the doors. In the dark hallway outside the hospital wing, she could still hear Harry's choked sounds and the rhythmic banging of the metal bars on his bed.

Covering her face with her hands, Ginny backed against a wall and slid feebly to the floor.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

_Asleep He Dreamed_

_Chapter Eight_

_Harry stared up at Cedric, ignoring the hand that the other boy had extended to him. "Cedric?" Harry whispered. "Is that you?"_

_He wracked his brain, trying to remember the last few moments. He recalled feeling his body seize, and then a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Cedric's voice soothing him. _

_But how could that be? Harry shook his head. "Cedric, you're…"_

"_Dead?" Cedric interjected wryly. "Well, yes. You're right about that." He grinned crookedly at Harry. "Are you going to get up off the floor, or do you plan to stay down there for eternity?" _

_Harry got to his feet, taking the opportunity to stretch his tense, sore muscles. His entire body ached and throbbed; his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "What's happening?" he asked. "Do you know where I am? I thought I woke up in the hospital wing, but now I'm back in this place. _

"_And why are you here?" Harry asked. "Have you been here since… since…"_

"_Since I died?" Cedric smiled gently and gestured to a chair. "Might as well make ourselves comfy, this could take a while."_

_Once they were ensconced in the soft, plump chairs, Cedric solemnly turned to Harry. "You're in a coma, Harry. You fell during a Quidditch match and fractured your skull. The healers at St. Mungo's said they couldn't do anything more for you, and you were bought back to Hogwarts."_

"_A coma?" Harry echoed. "But Madam Pomfrey …"_

"… _Couldn't do anything for you either. The only choice was to make you comfortable and hope you woke up." Cedric cast Harry a sympathetic look. "You've been unconscious for two days, and before tonight, they didn't think that you were ever going to wake up. I'd imagine that they're still not sure."_

"_So__ this is all in my head? What about Voldemort? Am I imagining him too?" Harry glanced around the room, and sure enough, Voldemort was there, rolling a Bludger back and forth between his pale hands. Even when he couldn't see Voldemort, Harry could always feel the monster's presence; it manifested itself as a hollow ache in his chest, a gaping, sucking wound in his soul. _

_Cedric glanced, stone faced, at Voldemort. "I don't know how he's here, but you're not imagining him," the young man said. "I think he's the one responsible for your seizure, for keeping you here. He's trying to end the job he couldn't finish four months ago." He glared over at Voldemort, who responded with a smile and a sweeping wave of his hand. _

_Harry ducked his head, shamefaced. "Cedric, you shouldn't be dead," he whispered. "I should have known it was a trap when we ended up in that graveyard." _

_Shaking his head, Cedric leaned forward. "You were fourteen years old, Harry, and facing a graveyard full of Death Eaters and the most powerful Dark Wizard in history. How were you supposed to stop anything? A fully trained Wizard or Witch wouldn't have fared any better. I don't blame you, not at all." _

_The expression on Cedric's face darkened as he turned to glare at Voldemort. "I blame him. For everything. For taking away your childhood, for taking my life. He's evil and I hope you crush him like the insignificant little cockroach that he is." Cedric paused. "You're the only person that can do it, Harry."_

"_So, no pressure or anything?" Harry joked, and he and Cedric shared a slight smile. Then Harry sobered. "Why are you here? __How__ are you here, if this is all in my mind?"_

_Cedric shrugged eloquently. "Honestly? I don't know. The brain can imagine anything, can't it? I think I'm here because you needed me to be here._

"_I'm pretty sure I'm not a ghost," Cedric said with a grin. "At least I hope I'm not, because if I am a ghost, I'm a sodding awful one. I've been wandering the Quidditch pitch and no one seems to be able to actually see me. Even the Hogwarts ghosts can't see me." _

"_You didn't get to – you know? Cross over, or whatever it's called?" Harry asked._

"_Go towards the light?" Cedric asked, raising his eyebrow. "I think I did, after I was killed. So I might just exist in your brain."_

"_Plenty of people would tell you there's room in my brain for visitors," Harry muttered. "Snape would probably be the first one to say that. In fact, he'd probably have diagrams and colour-coded charts to back him up."_

_Cedric's snort of laughter made Harry grin. "Merlin, it's good to have somebody to talk to, even if the circumstances are a little peculiar," Cedric said. "It's pretty lonely out there on the Quidditch pitch."_

_Harry shuddered at the sound of the raw loneliness in Cedric's voice. With all this oddness going on, he had some idea of what it felt like to be around people and not have them respond, and he didn't know how Cedric had tolerated it._

"_You don't look like a ghost, you know," Harry said. "You're not silver or anything."_

"_I feel like one. Out there …" - the sweep of Cedric's arm indicated everything outside of Harry's mind - "Out there, I can't touch anything or talk to anyone else. People walk through me. My girlfriend __flew through me__ during the Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor match. Of course, she wasn't concentrating on the game because she was watching you."_

_Harry felt guilty again at the mention of Cho, and as his face heated up with a blush he opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by Cedric._

"_Harry, don't, okay? I know you like Cho, and she likes you too; I was just confident enough to get to her first. I'm not expecting her to mourn me forever, you know. I won't lie and say that it won't bother me to see you go out with her, and I think that you're both meant for other people, but, for what it's worth, you have my blessing."_

_Harry's mouth opened and closed silently. Finally, he was able to speak. "Meant for other people? What other people?" he squeaked._

"_A certain little red-headed Weasley witch for a start. She adores you, and I do mean __you__, not Harry-Potter-The-Boy-Who-Lived-And-Will-Save-Us-All. Ginny has barely left your side since the accident, and the poor girl saw you have that fit when she snuck in to visit you. She's probably in a right state."_

"_Ginny? But – but – she's Ron's little sister! He'd kill me if I went anywhere near her!" Harry babbled._

"_Just wait and see," Cedric told him, with a hint of smugness. "You'll end up marrying Ginny Weasley and having a crowd of ginger children."_

"_I – what – Cedric! Shut UP!" Harry shouted, but oddly enough the idea held some appeal. He could picture Ginny in white satin, her flaming hair crowned with a wreath of small white flowers, walking towards him down an aisle lined with family and friends … "Shut up!" he said again, less forcefully this time, giving in to the urge to grin. _

_Cedric slouched down in his chair, his sprawled frame showing an easy grace. "It's a shame we didn't get to be friends. We didn't have much of a chance to talk, did we?"_

_Harry brought his legs up into the chair, pulling his knees close to his chest. "Not really. During the tournament I was scared and in over my head, and you seemed to be so sure of what you were doing. I was a bit intimidated, actually."_

"_You don't give yourself enough credit, Harry. You proved yourself as an equal when you went up against the Hungarian Horntail. That was enough to earn my respect, and I know Fleur and Krum felt the same way." Cedric took a deep breath. "Harry, I have to thank you for bringing – for bringing my body back. Mum and Dad needed that closure. If I'd been left in that graveyard, they would have held on to the hope that I was still alive, and it would have broken them."_

_Harry hesitated slightly before asking his question. "Did it hurt, when you…?"_

_Cedric shook his head. "No. I didn't even know what had happened until I found myself standing next to my body, watching you being tortured." _

"_I'm glad it didn't hurt," Harry whispered. His mind was filled with the screams of his mum, her voice shrill and full of fear. He took a measure of comfort in knowing that the killing curse didn't hurt, but it didn't take away the fact that Lily Potter's last moments had been filled with the certainty of her own impending death. _

_They both glanced at Voldemort, who was oozing superiority from every pore of his loathsome body. The wizard backed against the wall in a pantomime of fear, his hands clasped to his face and his mouth open in a silent scream. He was such a drama queen._

"_Typical Slytherin," Harry thought spitefully. _

_He turned his head to look at Cedric. "I'll make him pay for what he did to you. For what he did to my Mum and Dad, for what he's done to so many others._

" _I promise I'll make him pay." _

"_I know you will." Cedric jerked his head in Voldemort's direction. "And so does he. That's why he's fighting so hard to keep you trapped inside your own head."_

_Harry set his jaw resolutely. "So what do I do? How do I wake up?"_

_Cedric's face took on a look of steely resolve. "By fighting back."_


	9. Chapter 9

AUTHORS' NOTE:

This chapter gave us a lot of grief. A LOT of grief. In fact, it changed so many times that I hope it still makes sense. To our readers, we thank you for not giving up on us.

And now, on with the chapter.

ASLEEP, HE DREAMED

CHAPTER 9

Harry's seizure didn't last long.

But to Poppy Pomfrey, it seemed like an eternity until Harry stopped seizing and his limbs finally fell still. For a moment, she held her breath as Harry panted, sucking in air as if he was drowning.

Eventually, his breathing lapsed into a more even pattern, and she became aware of the pair of eyes that were watching her. Huddled beside the foot of Harry's bed, Dobby the house-elf was holding a tea tray. His hands trembled so badly that tea was sloshing all over the tray's surface. His bulbous eyes were popping out even more than usual.

"H-harry… Potter?" whispered the elf, not believing what he'd just witnessed.

"You! House elf!" She strode to his side and took the tray from his unsteady hands. "Get Professor Dumbledore. Then find Molly Weasley. Tell them to come quickly.

"Go!" she shouted when the elf hesitated, his eyes still fixed on Harry. The elf nodded and Disapparated with a lingering "pop."

Setting the tray aside, Pomfrey turend to Harry once again. With a switching charm, she cleaned the sheets he'd soiled during his seizure. Once he was lying in fresh bedding and covered with warm blankets, she paused long enough to wipe the sticky, unkempt hair form his forehead. Her fingers brushed against his scar, which was red and hot to the touch. Fresh scratched now followed the length of Harry's face; Pomfrey vividly recalled how Harry had clawed at his skin, scratching himself with his own nails.

Clicking her tongue in sympathy, she brought a jar of healing cream from her cabinet of medicines and potions. As she dabbed the cream over the jagged scar and the fresh scratches, she thought Harry flinched a bit.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know it's cold." She rubbed her fingers gently over the scar, and when the cream had absorbed, her fingers strayed to his hair. She stroked the strands gently, her face full of pity.

"Poor dear," she whispered. "One wonders how much more you can take."

Her musings were interrupted as Molly Weasley burst through the hospital wing doors, her face masked in fear. She was still wearing a flowered robe, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep. She rushed to Harry's bedside, her bedroom slippers slapping against the cold, tild floor.

"Sorry to have disturbed your sleep, Molly," the Healer apologized. "He's had a fit of some sort. I thought you'd want to know. I'm certain Dumbledore is on his way as well."

Molly gasped slightly at the smear of blood on Harry's pale cheek. Seeing the distress on Molly's face, Pomfrey regretted not cleaning the boy's face earlier.

"He bit his lip," Pomfrey explained, in a voice that trembled slightly.

Molly pulled a clean tissue from the pocket of her robe, spat on it to moisen the cloth, and wiped Harry's cheek clean. Pomfrey winced a little at the unsanitary cleansing.

As she tucked the tissue back into her robe, Molly choked, "I've sent Dobby to Remus Lupin. I thought he could find Harry's Godfather. When I received your message to come quickly, I feared the worst."

"So did I, for a time," Pomfrey said quietly.

In the doorway of the hospital wing, Dumbledore appeared; he had brought Snape and McGonagall with him. With swift strides, they came to Harry's bedside and listened as the Healer explained the evening's events. McGonagall sat down on the edge of Harry's bed, taking the boys' limp hand in hr own. She looked as if she was about to cry. Dumbledore gently set his hand upon her bony shoulder, but his pitying eyes never left Harry's still face.

Only Snape hung back, his eyes narrowing as he stared at a shadowy corner of the room. "Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?" McGonagall sniffled.

Dumbledore glanced out the window; a storm was brewing outside, and the wind was blowing hard enough to shake the window panes. "Perhaps you heard the tree branches against the windows," he said mildly.

"Perhaps," Snape agreed slowly, but his eyes continued to roam the span of the hospital wing.

The doors opened again and Remus Lupin appeared, looking haggard and exhausted. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner," he said to the group. "I was detained."

Snape scowled, but the rest merely nodded knowingly. They stepped back from the bedside so Lupin could draw closer to Harry.

"Are you well enough to be here?" Dumbledore asked the former professor.

"Of course," Lupin said, but he was deathly pale and his words convinced no one. "How is he?" he asked.

"There was a fit of some sort," Pomfrey said. "But he is breathing easier now."

Lupin nodded, unable to speak. The past two nights had been particularly difficult for the former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher; he had received the owl, with the message of Harry's grave injuries, and yet he had known the moon was upon him and he'd been helpless and unable to travel to Hogwarts. His howls had been particularly mournful that night, and he had struggled to gain his strength the following day, trying to will himself to recover moere quickly than usual. As he stood beside Harry, he was so weak he wavered on his feet; Dumbledore conjured a chair and ordered Lupin to sit.

Lupin half-smiled in embarrassment, but took the chair. He stared hard at Hary, frowning as he gently brushed aside the boy's hair. Long, red scratched began to Harry's temples and melted into his hairline.

"What caused these marks?" Lupin demanded.

Pomfrey hesitated. She knew that what she was about to say might earn her permanent lodgings at St. Mungo's, but she owed it to Harry to tell the truth about what she had seen.

"Earlier this evening, I thought Mr. Potter was improving," she said. "He almost seemed as if he was coming out of his darkness. But when his seizure bgan, it seemed as if he was fighting it… fighting to stay conscious. He was clawing at his head as if… as if trying to escape it.

"I know it goes against Healer teachings regarding this sort of condition, but I would have sworn he was trying to come back to us, and that something… or someone… was pulling him back."

A dead silence fell over the room's occupants. Dumbledore was the first to break the silence. "Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall… if I could have a word." With a flourish or robes, the headmaster headed for the doors. Snape, scowling, followed on his heels.

Professor McGonagall gave Harry's hand a final squeeze and then stood, pausing to rest her hand on Lupin's shoulder. "Have a cup of tea," she said, gesturing to the tea set still perched on the bedstand. "You look as if you could use it. Poppy, do you have any biscuits in your office as well?"

"Of course." Poppy nodded, seemingly relieved to have something to do. As McGonagall hurried out of the hospital wing, and Poppy retreated to her office, Lupin found himself alone with Harry. For quiet moments, the former professor did not say anything, merely stroked the boy's unruly hair.

Eventually, Lupin straightened his spine and quietly spoke:

"The coast is clear, Padfoot."

From the corner of the room, a pair of red, glowing eyes emerged from the shadows.


End file.
